The drivers stared at him, amazed by such mercy, then turned away to bandage the few enemies who still had a chance—and, of course, their own.
Satisfied that the man would live, Gar snatched the fellow’s belt off, flipped its owner over, and bound his hands. Then he looked up to see Ralke staring down at him. “I have to have at least one of them alive,” Gar said by way of explanation. “More if I can.”
“Well, you’ve succeeded in that, and in saving us all,” Ralke told him. “Three of them came for you, and that left two of my drivers free to help their mates. They knocked over two boots, and the four of them helped four more, and … Well, you drew so much of their attack that my men finished them off easily. Only one of our drivers is down with a spearhead in his thigh. The others are bleeding, but they can walk.”
“Let me see the man with the spear wound.” Gar scrambled to his feet. “While I’m bandaging him, tie up the others and find me their sergeant, if he’s still alive.”
“The brute?” Ralke grinned. “Oh, he’s alive, all right. He came for me, but he wasn’t a trained swordsman. He’ll live, worse luck.”
“Then I need to talk with him. But first, the driver.”
It took Gar ten minutes to make sure the driver was all right. By luck, the spearhead had missed both arteries and veins, and Gar was able to start the flesh healing as he poured on brandy and bandaged the wound. Then he turned to the sergeant. He knelt beside the man, whose teeth were gritted against the pain of the wound in his shoulder. Gar lifted his head and shoulders, none too gently, and listened with his mind as he demanded, “Why did your boss send you to steal our goods?”
“Because he wanted them,” the man grunted, but the face that flashed through his mind wasn’t the boss’s.
Gar shook him, and the sergeant cried out in pain. “You’re so used to lying that it’s become a habit with you,” Gar told him. “Think! You have nothing to gain by telling a falsehood, and I’ll know if you do! It was Torgi the Translator who sent you after us! Is he that spiteful a man?”
At last fear showed on the sergeant’s face. “How did you know that?”
“It was there in your face for those who know how to read the eyes,” Gar told him, “and I can guess his reason, but I want to hear it from you. Tell! Was it only spite, or did he want the money?” Superstition shadowed the man’s eyes.
Gar decided to nudge him. “Your name is Hannok, and you haven’t told me that. That, too, is clear to see for those who know how to read faces.”
The sergeant who didn’t shrink from a sword or a mace now paled with fear of unknown powers. “He wanted the other part-in-twenty.”
“Was that his only reason, though? How much did he pay you?”
“Twelve silver marks,” the sergeant admitted. “That was the other half of the amount Torgi’s lie hid.” Ralke, too, was eyeing Gar with something like fear.
“So it wasn’t greed alone,” Gar, inferred. “He has a little power, and doesn’t want anyone infringing on it.”
“He could also be afraid that we’d reveal his treachery to his boss,” Ralke said heavily.
“A good guess. My advice, Master Ralke, is for us to quit this domain and do it quickly, for we have an enemy here who won’t rest until he sees us dead. That was what you were supposed to do, wasn’t it, Hannok?”
“It was,” the sergeant admitted.
“Even leaving may not do,” Ralke said, frowning. “Tell me, Brute Hannok, is Torgi’s post only that of translator? Surely there isn’t enough work for him in that function alone.”
“He’s the boss’s steward,” Hannok growled. “And every boss has a steward,” Ralke said heavily. “If they take up Torgi’s cause, we’ll be lost.”
“They don’t dare,” Gar told him, “for his cause is that of betraying his lord. Any steward caught aiding him will be dismissed from his post at the least, hanged at the worst. They’d do better condemning Torgi, and I don’t doubt they will, if his perfidy becomes known.”
“Which is all the more reason why he has to kill us.” Ralke nodded. “Yes, I see. But we can’t go back and tell the Boss of Loutre, for Torgi will have assassins waiting, and it won’t do any good to swear secrecy, for Torgi won’t believe us.”
Gar frowned. “How do you know that?”
“Because anyone that close to a boss is too deeply enmeshed in intrigue to be able to believe anybody’s oath.”
Gar saw a chance to apply a little more pressure. “But if none of the boots come back, Torgi might assume we’ve all killed each other.”
“Six of us got away!” Hannok blurted. “They were hidden on the hillside, and I didn’t give them the signal to join in!”
Ralke didn’t need to be a telepath to see through that one. “Nonsense! When your first six fell, you would have called in the rest.”
“I’ll pay you!” Hannok declared. “The whole twelve marks will be yours if you let us live! Come, you’re a merchant—why’re you doing this, if not for money?”
“We’d like to keep our lives, too,” Gar reminded him. “Money isn’t much use to dead men.”
“On the other hand,” Ralke said, “if you gave us the money and your oath to say we’re dead, we could let you all go.”
“Done!”
“Master Ralke!” Gar cried. “You’re not thinking of…”
“But I am,” Ralke said. “As Brute Hannok has said, I do this for money, and I’m used to taking risks. If he swears we’re dead, the chance of Torgi learning otherwise is small enough to be worth taking.”
“Well, you pay me to fight your enemies,” Gar said, scowling, “and I’ve given you the best advice I can. If you choose to ignore it, I can’t stop you.”
“You’ve a bargain, Brute Hannok.” Ralke reached down.
Hannok clasped his hand and used it to pull himself to his feet. “You won’t be sorry for this, merchant.” He reached inside his tunic. Gar swung up a hand, ready to strike, but Hannok only pulled out a purse. He set it in Ralke’s hand. “Count it—but if you don’t mind, I’ll set my men to making litters while you do.”
It took the boots much longer to cut poles and stretch cloaks over them than it took Ralke to count the silver. The boots loaded their wounded mates, and the one dead one, onto the litters and turned away up the hillside.
“I’ll remember you for your mercy, sir,” Hannok promised him.
“Don’t,” Ralke requested. “Forget me, brute. Completely. Please.”
The brute grinned and raised a hand in salute. Then he turned away and led his men back along the road.
“Mount!” Ralke cried, and the drivers who could still ride swung up onto their mules. Litters between them carried the two wounded.
As they rode off, Gar asked, “You don’t really think Hannok will tell Torgi we’re dead, do you?”
“Of course not,” Ralke said. “We killed one of his men and wounded most of the others, including him. He’ll want revenge, and will be back leading a larger force. But he won’t find us.”
Gar frowned. “How will you stop him?”
“Because I know the country almost as well as any of his boots,” Ralke said, “and better, in terms of finding bolt-holes. There’s a cave not far off where we can hide our goods and a few of the drivers to guard them.”
“Why not all of us?”
“Because it’s not that big, and because we could never keep that many mules quiet long enough for the boots to march by.”
“Then where will we hide?” Gar asked. “There’s a peasant village not far from here,” Ralke told him. “We can hide among them easily enough.”
“But they’ll be risking their lives!”
“Not really,” Ralke told him, “and the poor folk will do anything for a few coppers. I should know—I was born one of them, and so were all my men. But there’s the other reason, too.”